


cooking by the book

by Khismer



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: After End, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Other, Terrible Cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 03:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12182184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khismer/pseuds/Khismer
Summary: a long-overdue giveaway fic. saeran and the mc try to cook but they're both too much of a hot mess and things go Bad. post after-end.





	cooking by the book

On your first day off in three weeks, you are woken up by the blaring of a smoke detector.

Halfway through your panicked fumbling with the covers to make a run for it, the alarm comes to an abrupt stop. You pause with your hands poised to snatch up your slippers, pulse still racing from the shock, but it does not start up again.

What you do hear, however, is the soft but distinctive sound of shuffling footsteps from somewhere beyond the bedroom. The kitchen?

You glance to your side, only to find it empty. _Saeran._ What's he doing out there?

A chair squeaks as it's pulled across tile, followed by more shuffling, and then metallic clattering.

Well, strange though the noises may be, it doesn't seem to indicate anything panic-worthy, and now that you've dispelled the panic of your awakening, tiredness begins to seep back in. It's -- you glance at the clock -- 6:38am. No wonder. You sag back onto the bed.

You just need a few more minutes of sleep, and then you'll go and ask him what's going on. Just a few minutes…

When you open your eyes next, there is sunlight filtering in through the curtains and no alarm going off, but Saeran is still absent from the bed.

Cautiously, you throw off the covers and begin to pad into the kitchen.

And holy _shit_.

‘Mess’ doesn't even begin to describe it.

The sink is stacked high with pots and pans, and the ones you can see are coated in a variety of mysterious but entirely unappetizing substances.

The counters are spattered with… liquid? Although in some places it looks disconcertingly solid and gooey.

Saeran is standing in front of the stove, scraping around the sides of a pan of yet _more_ unknown maybe-food, though it looks like nothing you'd ever want to be near, let alone put in your mouth, and it seems to be giving off an oddly acrid smell, and _is that spatula he's using partially **melted**? _ It was not that way last night!

Saeran stares at you with baleful, tired eyes, though he continues to poke at the pan.

“What… the…” you manage.

“I was _trying_ to make you breakfast,” he snaps, daring you to argue.

“O...kay, that's… very sweet of you, Saeran, but…” You give the kitchen another once-over and hold your hands out helplessly before you. “How did… this happen?”

“It's not _my_ fault your pots are shit.” He jabs at the pan again.

“My pots are shit? Saeran, if you've burned through this many of them, that's not--” You cut yourself off. “What were you trying to make?”

“Eggs.”

“Eggs?! _Egg_ \--” You splutter. “How -- what -- was it -- fancy eggs or something, did you try and make… omelettes, eggs benedict, what?”

“No,” he says. His frown deepens and he hunches into himself. “Scrambled eggs.” He punctuates this statement by stabbing at the pan-mixture with the spatula, which makes it sizzle and pop, sending up a burst of oil.

You rush over and try to coax the pan away. “Oookay, babe, I think we can safely say that's done, don't think that's salvageable now.”

You set the pan on a backburner and turn off the heat.

When you turn back to Saeran, his pout is intense and he looks morose.

He _was_ trying to do something nice for you. Romantic, even. You hesitate, then say, “Look, it's… fine, we can fix this. Let's just… wash a pan and start over. We'll take it slow, alright? Nice and easy. How much butter do we have left?”

“Mmn. Gone.”

“Okay, well -- substitutes! Oil works, right?Maybe… a… cup of oil?” Shit, it's been a while since you've done this. But how hard can it be?

You root through the fridge and pull out what you think you need. “I think it's hot enough now, so watch me. Crack the eggs like this -- okay, there's some shell in there, but barely, uh… we can just pick that out after.”

Saeran is beginning to give you a Look.

“Now… let's see, I think you… tilt the pan a little to get a better angle -- wow, that's really sliding. Wait, what are you--”

Saeran has begun trying to pull your hands away. “Here, let me, you don't know how, either.”

“Wh--yeah I do, stop it, let _go_ \-- shit!”

Half an hour later, and you sit with your head in your hands, staring at the scorch marks trailing up the wall behind the oven. The sink is once again filled with dirtied dishes, and you doubt these pans could last through another scare like this. Saeran sits beside you, three fingers hastily bandaged, and your arm still aches from somehow managing to upend the pan of burning oil onto yourself.

“...okay,” you say at last, accepting your defeat at long last. “...you wanna just get takeout?”

“Takeout,” he agrees decisively. 


End file.
